Treat
by Penelope Grace
Summary: Trick or treat? Post-Epilogue/Halloween AU. Tomione. One-shot.


**A/N: Okay. I was getting bored. Now I'm writing this Halloween-theme fanfic. This will be an AU for sure. It is specifically a Post-Epilogue + Halloween AU. So. Yay! Fun. AU gets slightly suggestive. It's a moderate on the salsa rating.**

 **And I know that some parts of the fanfic probably doesn't make sense. . . That would be because I was writing this at a late, late hour and my head is not all right. Thus, plot holes. Sorry.**

 **Also, I have stole a part from Pirates of the Caribbean on a certain part. You'll understand once I get there.**

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 _Trick or treat!_

Hermione smiles widely at the gaggle of Muggle children waddling to her door. Teasing, she says, "What sort of tricks do you have under your sleeve? Are they evil? Bad?"

The girl, clearly the youngest and dressed a bright white goose, giggles and nods. Keeping the straightest face possible, she dissolves into even more giggles. "They are really bad, Miss Granger. Evil and bad and wicked!"

"What big words," Hermione compliments. Then she hands over the bowl of Muggle candy. "Here's a treat." As if remembering something, she leaves an afterthought, hollering. "Remember to brush and floss!"

"Yes, Miss Granger," they promise in a chorus.

She waves at them, and once they are out of her sight, she shuts the door with a gentle slam. She places her candy bowl right by the door and pulls out her wand. She summons a generous glass of red wine, sipping it. Staring quietly at her row of pictures on top of the fireplace, she watches the smiling faces of Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville laugh in a particular carefree way she misses and absolutely adores. They are so far away now. England is. . . across the pond, she supposes.

But moving across the pond for her research on the mysteries of the Montaukett Library in New York is an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She had sent her application on a whim, clearly knowing that there are far more qualified, older witches and wizards out there. But they picked her. Her. Out of everyone. But she snagged that opportunity.

A library. It rivals the library at Hogwarts. Montaukett Library is the library where almost anything could be found. It's like the Room of Requirement, except it is for books. It's expansive, and it started way back before the colonists ever came. It was first recorded through mouth and earlier forms of memory removal spells. The oral stories are still kept that way, but the library always have a written backup copy somewhere hidden in the shelves.

The first time she brought a recently published Muggle book to Montaukett Library, she had the shock of her life. Her bag had split apart, and right by the Muggle mystery book she hadn't even began was a perfect copy sitting innocently on the carpet floors. Her stunningly attractive coworker, Hale, had rushed over and taken the original book from her and explained, "That's Montaukett Library. It makes copies out of every book it doesn't have."

Standing there and feeling completely brainless in front of the graceful researcher, Hermione sputtered, "But do you have to take my book?"

He didn't reply. She could only see his smooth dark hair and lean shoulders as he strutted away, muttering to himself about the library's catalog. ". . . Muggle book. In the _P_ s for Patterson. First name, James. . ."

The library is completely amazing, though. It has three major sections. One is completely for oral literature and filled with memories in little jars. Then there is a section for magical books. Another for Muggle literature. Within sections, there are subsections. But Hermione's own focus and area of expertise/research is on the biographies of the Muggle section and thanatology, which is the study of death. It isn't thanatology, as in the Muggle term. It's thanatology in the wizarding term. It's where she research the precise nature between death and life and what exactly it means. It's about answering questions that has been plaguing Muggle, wizard, witches, everyone ever since there has been life.

After all, Montaukett Library is more than simply a library of, what is said to be, every book in the world. It's the best magical research institute on the east coast of the United States. Nationally, it is one of the top five.

Her doorbell rings, shaking Hermione out of her thoughts. She quickly sends her glass of wine back into the kitchen. She does not want children to be influenced by her wine-drinking in any way. Holding the bowl in her hand, she sings, "Happy Halloween!"

But it is not a group of children coming for candy.

A seductive voice tantalizingly replies, "Trick or treat?"

Her mouth is suddenly dry.

It's her coworker standing in front of her little loft's front door. He wears his standard black wizarding robes with the Montaukett Library's insignia, and he doesn't look out of place with the hundreds of other New Yorkers in their costumes. It's surprising, because Hale usually switches to Muggle clothes when he swings by her loft.

Hale's hair is ruffled, which is completely unlike his usual stylized look. He glances at the bowl of candy in her arms. His dark eyes carry the slightest hint of confusion, and he says, "I thought you wouldn't be giving out candy for Halloween because of sugar."

She shakes her head, letting him in. "No. I said specifically that my parents won't be giving out candy. I will be."

Giving her a wide smirk, he deftly snags one from her bowl.

"Hey," she protests, summoning it straight out of his hand. In the back of her mind, she realizes she is much closer to him than necessary. "Those are for kids."

Hale gives her the death glare, his hands playing around with the candy bowl. "I ran up against a wall in my research I can't figure out the problem."

Hale studies the same thing as her. Thanatology. It's honestly surprising that Montaukett Library would take two researchers who study the same thing, but she supposes that she makes up for it by bringing in her Muggle background. It's probably why Hale isn't an expert in two fields, unlike her. A tiny part of her admits that Hale is a lot more innovative and controversial than her, which probably makes him a better researcher. He dares to go where she wouldn't even think about. It also helps that his published theses are the most attractive and most clever things she has ever read.

"In which part?" She smirks right back at him. She shouldn't be taking pleasure in watching him fail, but she does like it when he has to come to _her_ for help. There is something oddly alluring about him when he begs.

"I've been observing the effect the Fountain of Youth has on imprisoned wizards for nine years." Sitting down on her couch, he relaxes his head, as if he has suddenly let the weight of the world go. "Four years ago, ninety-year-old wizards who were dying of old age were returning back to their prime after drinking from the fountain. Thirties, early twenties. Ages varied, but they were all in the best shape of their life. But I did a follow up on them last week. I found out they had been dead for two years. They were in their prime, yes, but they were aging at an accelerated rate."

She gives him a nasty look. "You didn't do a follow up within a year."

His eyes dart around, completely away from her. "Yes, it might have slipped my mind. I was a little busy with the honeybee problem!"

Hermione shakes her head. Completely amazing. One of the best researcher, Hale, has managed to forget one of his most important research projects. Hale, first name basis, no last name, has done a huge oops.

A very interesting oops.

"Please," he says, catching her attention. He never says _please_. Not even once. It must be something really important. "Help me. Tell me why these wizards and witches are dying off."

She sticks her chin up in the air. "Maybe if you ask me one more time."

" _Please_ ," he murmurs.

She closes her eyes. Wizards aging at an accelerated rate. No, dying off even after drinking from the Fountain of Youth. It should be impossible. Their lives are supposed to be extended. . .

Wait. She remembers something. A theory she came up with a long time ago. Back when she was trying to defeat Lord Voldemort, and she was trying to see if there were any alternative routes to immortality he could have taken. It was a long list, surprisingly. Vampirism, Horcrux, Dark curses, a variant of Bewitched Sleep which allows the victim to sleep for centuries without aging. . . But one of the possible pathways Hermione scratched off was the Fountain of Youth. She thought it was only an old legend about the glories of North and South America with the only purpose of drawing the fools to the New World. But then it was discovered six years ago in Wyoming, United States of all places.

The legend turns out to be true. Two cups of its waters will bring one person death and the other life and youth. The survivor has not just his own lifespan but also the victim's years.

That part doesn't matter.

What matters is her theory about someone, like Voldemort for example, leaching off the Fountain of Youth. Manipulating the very properties of the Fountain itself. It's the perfect con. Come for the youth and then slowly fall to death by having years taken off. Punishment of greed, she supposes.

"Someone has manipulated the Fountain's magic," she answers. She gives Hale a shrug. "Possibly someone who is afraid of death."

"You don't care?" He raises his eyebrow incredulously. "Hermione. . . The Library is going to cut my grant for not following up on that project."

She turns her back on Hale and summons her red glass of wine. "As if you really care about _that_ research project. No, you'll be more happy to let fools walk into your trap and simply watch them give up their life energy for you," she pauses, her brown eyes meeting Hale's dark ones, "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

So that's how he has been keeping himself alive, she realizes. The pieces fit.

He doesn't even bat his eyelash. "It's Hale, Hermione. Not. . . Whoever that is."

She gives him a simpering smile. "Sure, Tom. But you didn't think I wouldn't notice your gravestone being slightly out place all those years ago. When was it? Oh, I was at your unmarked grave at exactly this hour. On Halloween. One moment, I was staring at the quote on a neighboring headstone. The next, I saw the stone a little higher than it usually would be." A pause as she draws breath. "You didn't think I wouldn't notice all the magical disturbances on every Halloween ever since your grave was disturbed. You did something to yourself, didn't you? You connected yourself to the Fountain's power? And every Halloween. . . You collect the power."

It's a far-fetched theory, but with every single word she speaks, she can see how it could be done.

He tilts his head, his eyes flashing with a bright glint. "Hermione, I don't understand what you're talking about."

She leans down at him. "I'm letting you know this, Tom. I'm watching you. You hurt my friends, and I promise you that I will hunt you down even after I'm dead."

A pause.

Then he coyly and confidently says, "I don't think you want me dead, _Hermione_ At least not until I finish my research on the Elixir of Life. You appreciate knowledge more. And I haven't done anything wrong."

"Except for changing the Fountain's properties."

"There will always be fools. Besides, the Fountain was a curse anyway. I was merely. . . using it for my own purposes."

She sits down, right next to the snake. Leaning her head against the couch and so close to his left shoulder, she only asks, "How did you come back?" For a serpent he truly is, he is surprisingly warm.

He scoots closer to her until they touch, just oh so gently. He smugly whispers, in a low, low voice, "Trick or treat? I'll give you a wicked one."

"How did you come back?" she persists.

He gives her a smirk and pulls out another wrapped candy he stole from her candy bowl. He pops the colorful sweet into his mouth, chewing and chewing and chewing. "You like puzzles. Solve this one."

"What will you be doing while I'm solving you?"

"Not killing your friends."

She rolls her eyes. "What will you be doing?"

His hand sneaks over to her leg. He tightly grips her thigh, and with subtle, gentle movements, he makes letters while his cool eyes appraise the sheer amount of want and heat in her eyes.

Y. O. U.

Then he pulls at her white blouse, his mouth on hers as she banishes the very clothes on his back. The air is warm on his skin, and her deft fingers on his navel explores downward. . .

An hour later, she asks, "Trick or treat?"

He kneels down in front of her, his head beautifully bowed. He pulls her legs apart, and she feels the tickling of his warm breath on her skin as he exhales _slowly_.

Even though he doesn't say anything, she knows his answer all the same.

 _Treat._

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